The Fiction
The eyes cannot see
the minds construction of the face
nor the auctions of the heart
pay the dark programs of entertainment
for their own survival
to your body as if it were a bible
flashing through the night’s sky
‘don’t you know there’s a war on’
casualties falling around our feet
like leaves in English desolation
upon a Afghanistan street
picturing desire lies and fable
losing touch with reality
watching the witch trials live on cable
in the name of celebrity
no one knows the rules of engagement anymore
but we will endure the same endgame
the same deceit
we’re searching for devices not defeat
hidden below before they explode into fleeting trees
of dirt sand and limbs
by the roadside
I tell you this is the law
the truth is on the cutting room floor
where the final moments are saved
we are becoming more like characters
based upon real life events
at the heart of this fiction
is the image of our lives
grieving their own disapperance
as we eagerly await the bad news of new chapters
guilt metaphors traditions of tragedy
half-truths and a widow’s dignity
anything to fill this need
for a sense of new meaning
anything for a story forbade
for what I say I make no apology
we have lost our way
to a dead man’s pathology
while we sit at home watching the war
regretting our indecision
on tonight’s television